I Like Thee when thou art quiet for it is as though thou wert absent,
And thou hearest me from far away, and my voice toucheth thee not.
It seemeth as though thine eyes had flown away
And it seemeth that a kiss had sealed thy mouth away.
As all things are filled with my soul
Thou emergest from the things, filled with my soul.
Butterfly from slumber, thou resemblest my soul,
and thou resemblest too the word Melancholy.
I Like Thee when thou art quiet and thou art like distant.
It soundeth as though thou wast moaning, thou butterfly lulled to slumber.
And thou hearest me from far away, and my voice reacheth thee not:
Let me come to be still with the silence of thine.
Let me talk to thee with thy silence as well
Bright as a lamp, simple as a ring.
Thou art like the night, quiet and stellar.
Thy silence is that of a star, so remote and so plain.
I Like Thee when thou art quiet for it is as though thou wert absent.
Distant and full of sorrow as though thou had died.
One word then, and one smile are enough.
And I am happy, happy that it is not true.